


The List

by Walor



Category: Outlast (Video Games)
Genre: Pre-Whistleblower
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 04:55:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,928
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2011683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Walor/pseuds/Walor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lisa would have blamed his need to get involved on paranoia, Blaire labeled it for what it was: a bleeding heart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The List

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble

There was an array of things that bothered Waylon.

 Small irks that ranged from the knowledge that a spider was within his close vicinity at any given point in time to the irritating tip-tap of his colleague’s slow-paced, two-finger typing. He remembers vividly as Lisa muttered words like ‘childish’ and if he recalls correctly ‘spoiled’ when he confronted her about her habit of leaving the soap bar in any one place in the shower—instead of the decorative holder he had spent three precious dollars on. He doesn’t like the taste in his mouth when he was forced to sleep alone in bed that night when he had accidentally let a word akin to ‘lazy’ slip from his lips.  
   
It wasn’t exactly his fault, he tells himself alone in the server room watching the green lights blink, that he was born with such fickleness. His list is long and every so often, particularly after a coloring experience, something may be added or in rare events removed. Petty annoyances Lisa had called them in the early days of their dating, when they jumped from topic to topic as if they had to learn everything for an exam on the other’s identity.

“How will you make the most of life if you let these little bothers hang over your head like fog? Life’s about experiences and you can’t have happy ones when you find something bothersome about it.”  Waylon can almost hear the nervous little laugh he forced in response along with murmurs of “right, right” to reassure her his feelings weren’t hurt. He’ll never say it stung his pride a little.

Though there are small things he finds manageable that Lisa detests, he considers them bargaining chips. He doesn’t mind being stuck inside at his computer with his eyes fixed to the headache-inducing light for hours on end for, in her opinion, ‘boring’ work. Nor does he mind the chilly temperature the server room is set in to make sure the machines are kept cool as they burn up from their workloads. He feels a smile tug at his lips when he remembers when Lisa called him the real ‘Ice King’ as she bundled up in blankets—he was wearing shorts and a loose tank—waiting for the heater to start up while the boys’ shows droned on in their ears.

He pauses for a moment in his work, to peek up from above his desktop, when he hears the grating two-finger type tone go silent. He sees that his colleague, Jackson he concludes, has disappeared and left what looks to be a fresh cup of coffee on the desk. Waylon can already feel his brows knit together as he sighs, he hates the smell of coffee and now it will permeate the room until Jackson finds it convenient to reappear. Before Waylon can get back to his work, however, he finally takes notice of the shadow in the door way. The owner’s voice beats his eyes to the punch.

“Mr. Park.”

Waylon tenses unconsciously as he tries to settle back in his seat inconspicuously, attempting to hide in the faux leather. He already knows it’s too late, he’s alone and the main focus of Blaire’s undivided attention. Jackson probably saw him coming down the hall from the window view at his desk and got the hell out of Dodge without a word.

Bastard.

Blaire’s sweeping into the office before Waylon can even get in a “Hello” or some sort of acknowledging response—he wouldn’t want Blaire to think he was ignoring him—eyes raking over the machines with a meticulous glint. 

“Everything doing all right in here?” Blaire drawls out quietly, not bothering to attempt to pretend he’s making harmless office chitchat. Waylon returns his eyes to the computer screen in front of him before he can meet those striking blue ones. He’s never been a fan of blue eyes. They were always too raw.

“Just same old same old.” It takes a little too long, Waylon realizes, for him to mumble a half-hearted reply when he hears the steady footfalls of those expensive Italian shoes getting horribly close. The next thing Waylon knows there’s a hand on the back of his chair and an intolerable heat right behind him.

“You’re a hard worker aren’t you, Park?” Jeremy asks with a light breath and Waylon can’t suppress the shudder that slides down his back like ice. Waylon feels his heartbeat pick up before he can stop it and finds them both in uncomfortable silence when he hesitates to respond out of fear of choking. Blaire is far more perceptive than Waylon gives him credit for, because before he can get his thick tongue to form something that sounds like words, Blaire’s hand is gripping his shoulder.

Hard.

“Something wrong? You know you can tell me if there’s a bump or not. I can get someone in here to give you a hand.” He feigns concern and Waylon nearly let’s out a sharp laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of it. Jeremy fucking Blaire being concerned? He’d sooner get struck by lighting five times over.

Finally Waylon manages out a “No sir, I’m fine sir,” and he could kick himself with how utterly meek he sounds. He can feel Blaire pause for a moment before he steps away and the hand on his shoulder is begrudgingly removed. Waylon knows what Blaire wants and he’s not about to act like he didn’t see that vicious glint flash in those eyes the day he confronted him about his suspicions on ethical morality. Waylon could chide himself when the sound of Jeremy retreating back to the door nearly brings tears to his eyes.

Waylon feels his throat tighten when he thinks back to his own idiocy that lead to him arriving in Blaire’s office for the first time. It had been hours after he had watched that undistinguishable—that was an error perhaps, as the man’s voice was burned into his memory—doctor lean a little close to a patient’s face. His hand lingered a little too long on the heavily-scarred patient’s chest as it trembled with hesitant pleas, nervously trying to sink further into the bed. Almost afraid to ask the man that should have been helping him, nurturing him, to stop. Waylon hadn’t meant to stumble upon that scene, hadn’t meant to walk out into the hallway at that time, hadn’t mean to be so disgusted by Jackson’s damn coffee smell that he needed to escape the enclosed room for fresh air, hadn’t meant to be already brewing in anger over the disclosure agreement that kept him from his family. 

Lisa would have blamed his need to get involved on paranoia, Blaire labelled it for what it was: a bleeding heart.

When Waylon arrived in the office with his findings he didn’t miss the way those blue eyes turned stormy or how Blaire nearly forgot to regain his friendly boss demeanor.  He tutted Waylon in measured words, with promises of having HR investigate it. Waylon never realized until now how he pushed himself off the edge of the cliff when he insisted he help file the HR complaint that moment, while the memory was still fresh. It was like he coated himself in meat and he threw himself into the lion’s den.

But Jeremy Blaire wasn’t a lion.

He didn’t snap at Waylon the moment he presented himself as a possible problem to Murkoff’s needed secrecy. No, Jeremy Blaire was a patient man, eagerly waiting in the shadows until he was presented with a real ace. His visits to the basement level became a lot more frequent and only an idiot wouldn’t realize just why he came down now. It was a shame the office idiot had to be Waylon himself when even slow-mover Jackson recognized a threatening situation when he saw one.

Waylon feels himself freeze when he hears the door to the room lock instead of click like it was supposed to. His breath hitches when he hears a soft sigh as Blaire turns back into the room “You sure you don’t need any extra help, Park?” 

“I’m fine, thank you sir.” Waylon grits out through clenched teeth as he broke into a cold-sweat. He kept forgetting Blaire wasn’t at all stupid.

What Waylon didn’t expect though was to suddenly be heaved up from his desk by his collar and slammed against the wall. He chokes in shock while Blaire regards him with a raised eyebrow, as if he were the one acting strange.

“Mr. Park, if there’s one thing I hate more than lazy-asses, it’s liars. Maybe you just need someone to help motivate you, like your wife, Lisa right?” Blaire’s moving closer and all of a sudden Waylon can smell the man’s aftershave and it’s as stinging and brutal as his voice. Blaire’s eyes are as frigid as winter itself and Waylon feels like he’s drowning in the depths of the ocean. “I really don’t like having to do this sort of work, Park,” Blaire muses as his free hand reaches up to lightly rest on Waylon’s neck, “you don’t want to make me have to do this, don’t you?”

Waylon is all to quick to shake his head, nervously gulping while he contemplates either lifting his arms to try and pry Blaire’s away or letting them hang there. He choses the latter, Blaire likes his workers meek. Blaire is silent for a few moments as his eyes rip into Waylon’s own, searching and tugging for anything to give him away, to get him to slip-up and admit to anything—hell if Waylon said he was the one who didn’t clean out the coffee pot Blaire would take it despite knowing full well Waylon hates the taste. Waylon goes rigid as he feels Blaire’s thumb brush over his Adam’s apple and those blue eyes fall down to regard it. Waylon fights down a hiss, resolving to keep silent as Blaire gives an experimental squeeze that only lasts a second. 

Waylon doesn’t miss the smile full of teeth.

Blaire let’s out another sigh and Waylon smells his mint-tinted hot breath on his cheek before the man let’s him down. Waylon leans back against the wall, still not moving too much, his eyes focused on Blaire as the man readjusts his suit. Waylon’s given him the absolute control he wants over him and with the threat of his family being dragged down with him hanging over his head they’re both ‘satisfied.’ Blaire throws a casual glance back at Waylon, still acting as if nothing is out of place and asks nonchalantly, “We’re missing one of the laptops from the work room, know where it is?” His reply comes out as smooth as it can be after being rehearsed eleven times.

“I’ll make sure that Jackson returns it by tonight.”

With that Blaire bids him a good rest of the morning as he leaves the office empty-handed for now. The moment the door shuts Waylon feels his legs turn to jelly faster than he can say “oh fuck” and he’s on the floor holding his knees tight to his chest. His heart is beating faster and the shine of the borrowed laptop hidden beneath his desk is blinding. The smell of old coffee registers in his head before he notices he’s forgotten it as he takes in deep shaking breaths, feeling like he’s going to be sick.

He realizes when Jackson finally comes back and finds him on the floor that he has more things to add to that list.


End file.
